


No Mountain-Climbing Involved (This Time)

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: A Poem Lovely As A Tree [3]
Category: The Librarians (TV 2014)
Genre: Birthday Presents, Boys In Love, Established Relationship, Jacob and His Flower Powers, M/M, Plants, Whoever Said You Can't Give Boys Flowers Has Clearly Never Tried It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 01:15:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17736239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: Ezekiel Jones does not do anything halfway. Especially not when it comes to birthday presents.





	No Mountain-Climbing Involved (This Time)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, [bellatemple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellatemple/pseuds/bellatemple), you've won. Jacob's keeping the flower powers and has a series now.

"Happy birthday."

Jacob tilts his head back to get an upside-down view of his boyfriend, standing behind his chair and grinning down at him. "You remembered," he says, holding his 'gift' in one hand—a bottle of his favourite beer with a red ribbon tied around the neck. He knows it's only a joke. Ezekiel Jones did not do anything halfway.

"Of course I remembered, cowboy, what makes you think I wouldn't?"

He shrugs as Ezekiel steps around his chair and sits on the edge of his desk, shifting aside a stack of papyrus scrolls to make room. "You haven't said anything, that's all."

The younger man scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, that's because I'm not Cassandra and can actually be subtle about something."

Good point. Cassandra's about as subtle as Marilyn Manson at a Baptist revival. Jacob rolls the beer bottle between his palms, not missing the decidedly mischievous smile that Ezekiel's wearing. "I assume this is only the warm-up round," he remarks even as he internally prays that it's not something stolen from a museum somewhere. They'd had a discussion about that.

"Yep. Close your eyes."

"Are you serious?"

"As the clap. C'mon, cowboy, honour the tradition."

"Tradition, my ass," Jacob mutters but closes his eyes obediently nonetheless, resisting the urge to peek just a little bit. He hears Ezekiel's soft footsteps, a quiet exclamation of _'oh, fuck,'_ from nearby. "Jesus, what are you doing?"

"No worries, I got it," Ezekiel calls back, sounding oddly strained, as if he's lifting something heavy. "Just a second."

There's a scraping sound, a muffled rattle, and then something heavy and _cold_ is set in his lap. Jacob puts both hands against rough fabric, feels frost melt under his fingertips. He opens his eyes and blinks a few times in dismay at the sight of a thick canvas bag that's packed with snow and dirt. Baffled, he opens his mouth to ask what the hell this is for, and then he hears it—sound without sound, a faint, high-pitched tone, like the sound that might be produced if a wet finger was drawn very lightly around the edge of a crystal glass.

Breath catching, he uses his fingertips to gingerly dig through the snow to the half-frozen dirt that's underneath, trying to listen without his ears. Buried in the packed earth are over a dozen flower bulbs, dormant and waiting for a thaw, singing their silvered crystal song. He knows exactly what they are. _"Perce-neige de la princesse,"_ he murmurs, looking up at Ezekiel with wide eyes.

 _Perce-neige de la princesse,_ known in English as the princess's snowdrop, was a magical flower, related to the more mundane snowdrop flower. It grew wild on only two mountains in the Dauphiné Alps, Ailefroide and La Meije, and it was invaluable in the making of various spells and potions, especially healing magics. It was damned hard to get, too. He's holding a small fortune's worth of flowers in his lap.

"I figured you could plant them in the snow snakes' habitat. That ought to be cold enough for them, don't you think?" Ezekiel supposes.

"Yeah, that'd...that'd be perfect. How did you _get_ these?" Jacob asks softly.

The thief gives him a lopsided grin. "I have my ways, hippie."

Jacob remembers the weekend that Ezekiel went off on his own, three weeks prior, and smiles. The Back Door had been dialed to France that weekend, and when he got back, he'd complained of being sore until Jacob gave him a massage.

"Also, whatever you do, do _not_ tell Jenkins. He will very likely steal them from you," Ezekiel adds with a shake of his head.

He laughs aloud, hugging the canvas bag to him. He knows very well how much Jenkins wants a living culture of princess's snowdrop; they'd both heard the 45-minute rant Flynn got after carelessly using the last of the plant extract in an experiment. "If they take, I'll dig up one and give it to him." Carefully, he stands with the bag in his arms, shivering slightly; the tops of his thighs have gone numb from holding it on his lap so long. "C'mon, let's go plant them now. I don't want them to thaw."

They head towards the Small Animals section of the Library, don jackets and tall rubber boots, and head into the snow snakes' habitat; the tundra-like environment is perfect for cultivating the snowdrop.

"Ah!" Jacob whips around at the sound of Ezekiel's startled shout and sees the thief hopping on one foot, kicking the other leg to try and dislodge one of the snow snakes from his boot. The snake is a good three feet long and no thicker than Jacob's thumb; it looks like a bleached noodle as it flails about, fangs buried harmlessly in the thick rubber of the boots Ezekiel's wearing over his trainers. "You think—the buggers—would recognise me—by now," he grunts. With a final kick, the snake decides to give up the ghost and lets go, sailing a good ten feet away and landing harmlessly in the snow with a soft thump. "For as much as I feed the little wankers, you'd think that they wouldn't bite the boot that feeds them."

Jacob snorts and links his arm with Ezekiel's, pulling him along. "Ungrateful little critters, I know. C'mon." They go a few more yards in, and Jacob trudges halfway up a steep hill, testing the ground with the heel of his boot. "Here's good. Pass me a shovel." It takes both of them to scrape out enough of the semi-frozen ground to plant the bulbs, and by the time they're done, Jacob's sweating a little under his parka.

"Couldn't we just stick 'em in the fridge?" Ezekiel mutters, using his shovel as a crutch as Jacob carefully transplants the bulbs, murmuring softly to the sleeping plants.

The historian throws a handful of snow at his face. "No, and you know it." He sweeps the snow back over the disturbed soil and gives it a gentle pat. "There. Done. And there wasn't any mountain climbing involved," he adds with a smirk. The bulbs' crystalline song is clearer now that they're back in proper earth, and he can already tell that they'll thrive here. He resists the urge to coax one into flowering early, tucking his hands under his arms.

"No, just snake bites this time around."

"Oh, don't be a baby, it didn't even touch your skin. That's the whole point of the boots."

The warmth of the corridor is almost sweltering after the cold, and they both shrug off the parkas gratefully, stamping snow off their boots before returning them to the closet. Jacob wraps an arm around Ezekiel and pulls him into a kiss; his lips are still cold, and so is the tip of his nose, but Jacob hardly minds. "Thank you, Jonesy," he murmurs, warmth curling up in the pit of his stomach and in his chest.

Smiling, the thief winds both arms around Jacob's waist, tucking his hands in the back pockets of the man's jeans. "Happy birthday, hippie," he replies. "Now, c'mon. I've got dinner reservations made for us."

"Really? Where?"

"Mm, that place in Madrid you say I always mispronounce. That one."

"That's because you _do_ mispronounce it every time," Jacob chortles. "Well, let's get going, so we can get back and open my other present."

Ezekiel gives him a puzzled look, tilting his head. "Other present?"

"Mm-hm." Jacob takes a half-step closer, putting himself very tidily back into Ezekiel's personal space, not that the thief minds the intrusion. "I can't open it in public." One hand comes up to toy with the bottom of Ezekiel's shirt, idly fingering one of the buttons. "And the unwrapping part is half of the fun. Shame I have to wait until after dinner."

Ezekiel's mouth opens, then closes again without a sound, a flush rising to his cheeks; it's a sight that always makes Jacob feel unaccountably smug—the great Ezekiel Jones blushing. Finally, the younger man seems to remember how to speak English. "Well, I mean...we can always just...eat later?" he suggests in a somewhat choked voice.

"Good plan." Jacob hooks a finger through Ezekiel's belt loop and tugs. "Let's go, punk-ass. I've got presents to unwrap."

"Bloody hell. Remind me to get you flowers more often."


End file.
